Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1)

by Natalie Barelli

  “Darling, that’s amazing. I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of you! And this was so fast! I only transferred the money, what, last Saturday wasn’t it?”

  There’s a short silence.

  “What?” he says.

  “Isn’t that what you needed the money for?” I ask. “To seal the big deal? This is the big deal, right?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. We had to show we could follow through. It’s a big investment on our part too.”

  “Well, you deserve it, Jim. This is really wonderful news. I’m truly happy for you.”

  “And it’s just the beginning! Sweetheart, we’re celebrating, as you can imagine, all of us, admin staff too, the whole lab, tonight. Em, I think this is the happiest day of my life! No, wait, the second-happiest—the day I married you was the happiest.”

  “Celebrating? Tonight?” I ask.

  “Of course! What do you think! This is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me. Millennium is going to change the world. Damn right we’re celebrating! Jenny booked a large table at Perry’s Corner. I probably need to get a move on, but I wanted to tell you right away.”

  I look down at myself, my jeans and baggy T-shirt. “I’ll run up and get changed then, as soon as we get off the phone. It won’t take long.”

  “Emma, darling—”

  “I can be at Perry’s in forty minutes, tops.”

  “It’s a Millennium event, sweetheart.”

  I wait.

  “You understand, don’t you?” he says.

  “For a million bucks, I’d have thought I had earned at least an honorary seat at the table.”

  I can hear his short intake of breath. “We couldn’t have done it without you, that’s true. I know that.”

  We. I wonder who we is, because suddenly I’m pretty sure it doesn’t include me.

  “Hey, we’ll have a celebratory glass of champagne together when I get home, all right? I shouldn’t be late. And I do want to celebrate with my wife. Will you put a bottle in the refrigerator for us?”

  You have to be kidding me. Is that all I am? An afterthought? What am I supposed to say to that? Yippee?

  “I think it would be nice to include me, Jim. I did finance this . . . contract. Is it such a big deal if I come and join you?”

  “It’s just that it’s only us, the lab, and—”

  “The lab and the support staff, you said. What am I, a potted plant? An ATM machine?”

  “Don’t be difficult, Em, please. Not today. It’s a great day. Let me have my moment, all right?”

  I grit my teeth and bite my tongue, all at the same time. “All right.” It comes out heavy, resentful. I try again. “Of course. I understand. You have fun, and we’ll toast to the Treasury when you get home.”

  “Good. I really need to get going now. Everyone’s waiting for me. I’ll see you later, sweetheart, all right? I won’t be late.”

  “I love you,” I whisper, but he’s gone.

  I grab fistfuls of my hair and pull, letting out a kind of scream, the guttural kind, the kind you don’t want anyone to hear, but that takes effort to release, and I let tears gush out of me. It takes ages for me to calm down, but eventually I manage it.

  Don’t be difficult, Em.

  No, of course not. That would be unconscionable, not when you’ve had such good news. So what if I made it all possible? If I gave you all my money, simply because you asked?

  Don’t be difficult, Em.

  The words go around in circles in my head, on a loop. We’ll have a glass of champagne when he gets home. I should put a bottle in the fridge, but then I see there is one already. There’s always champagne in my refrigerator these days.

  Why doesn’t he want me there? I love it when Jim comes with me to functions. He should be proud to have me by his side. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. I thought that was the way it was. People look up to me now—just ask Nicole. Oh, and I gave him all my money so that he could close his stupid deal.

  I go upstairs and take a couple of the pills that Dr. Craven prescribed for me. Frankie will be pleased with me when I tell him that I went to see the good doctor, as instructed. And he was right, dear Frankie, I do need some help. I’m falling apart. I know that.

  “Don’t take too many,” Dr. Craven admonished me. “They’re fairly strong, but they will help you sleep. If you feel any anxiety, take one, but don’t drive.”

  I’m not feeling any anxiety, but I as sure as hell need to calm down, and if I have nowhere to go, then I may as well sleep.

  But I can’t. I’m too wound up, and I don’t want to take any more of those pills and pass out. I go back downstairs to the kitchen and pull the bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. It takes a bit of brute force to get it open, and some of it flows onto the floor when I finally manage it, but I don’t care. I grab a glass from the shelf and fill it up.

  Cheers, Em, thank you so much for being so supportive, so willing to help, so selfless. I couldn’t have done it without you, sweetheart. I’m a very lucky man indeed.

  Don’t be difficult, Em.

  I was taking summer college classes when I met Jim. I was there to study business and accounting, but I’d taken this extra class in English literature for my own enjoyment. He was still a student, but he was teaching math at the same school to make ends meet, and one day when I was rushing to get there on time, I literally ran into him, and the coffee he was carrying spilled all over my shirt. He apologized profusely, as if it were his fault, and I thought he was the most impressive man I’d ever met. He dressed well by any standard, let alone for a student—a little old-fashioned, maybe, but it gave him an aura of respectability. We saw each other in the hallway over the next few weeks, and one day he asked me out and we went to the best restaurant I’d ever set foot in. When I went to his house to meet his parents, I couldn’t believe how wealthy they were. They’re not really, I realize that now, they’re simply middle-class, but to me, they were at the top of the food chain, and I was a bit of plankton that had drifted into Jim’s wake.

  I think I became obsessed with him, when I look back on it. I worked hard to improve my appearance: I dressed better, I spoke better, I educated myself so that I could contribute to conversations about politics, social issues, international affairs.

  Eventually, Jim proposed, and our wedding day really was the happiest day of my life. But I still try to be that person that I think Jim wants me to be, and I still don’t know who that is. No matter how many books I write, how many awards I win, how much money I give him, I’m still that awkward, self-conscious woman, inadequate in all the important ways, pretending to be a grown-up. But is that what he wants? Because I know deep down that Jim isn’t at the restaurant with the Millennium team. Otherwise he would have included me. Of course he would have. I financed the whole thing, for Christ’s sake. No, Jim’s with that little witch Allison, who stalks him and stalks me, and won’t let go until she’s gotten her hooks into him, and has peeled me off him, and can have him all to herself.

  I go upstairs and change into my sexy black dress. It fits me perfectly, now that I’ve lost that extra weight. I put on makeup, which is no easy feat when you’re crying. I pin my hair up; it takes forever. I keep dropping things: hair clips, lipstick, tears. I’m glad the police were not interested in my Louboutins. I get out the door and half stumble to my car. I shouldn’t be driving, but I don’t care. I just want to get there as quickly as possible.

  35

  When I tell the waiter at Perry’s Corner that I’m with the Jim Fern party, he stares at me a moment longer than he should. He recognizes me, Lord bless him. Who knew waiters were so cultured? But then again, this is one of the best restaurants in the city; maybe a mental index of who’s who is a prerequisite.

  “Are you all right, madam?”

  “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You may want to use the ladies’ room, madam. It’s this way.” He points toward the back of the dining room and as I turn
to look I catch sight of myself in the mirror by the coat check. My mascara’s all over my face. It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. I step over to the mirror to take a better look, rifle through my handbag for a Kleenex and clean it up as well as I can, reapply some lipstick.

  “It’s fine, really. Thank you.” I’ve recovered quickly. I don’t care what he thinks.

  He nods and extends an arm, showing me the way. I crane my neck from behind him, looking for Jim and Allison in the main dining room, but I can’t see them.

  “This way,” he says, and then I catch sight of him. He’s sitting at the head of a long table. There’s Carol, Terry, Jenny, and at least half a dozen other people, some of whom I vaguely recognize, some of whom I’ve never seen before. They’re in the middle of a toast, their glasses raised toward Jim while he’s speaking, or holding court rather. It’s like a tableau.

  “Hello, everyone!” I say brightly. Every face turns and looks up at me in unison. I smile and nod enthusiastically at them all. “I’m not too late, I hope? Oh good, you’ve already ordered,” I say to no one in particular in a very cheery tone, a bright smile plastered on my face. I put a hand on the back of the nearest chair to steady myself, and turn to Jim.

  He doesn’t say a word, just glares at me, his lips pressed together in a thin pale line. His eyes are narrowed, hard. I cringe, almost, at how furious he looks, and then feel a flush of embarrassment. I’m standing like a dork, with no idea what to do next, but Terry comes to my rescue and a waiter is quickly summoned to set up a place for me. People shuffle their chairs noisily to make room; no one has asked me where I’d like to sit but I end up near Jim, between two young women I’ve never met, who look vaguely put out at the disturbance I’ve caused.

  Carol is sitting on Jim’s left, and she extends a hand across the table toward me, which I grab, awkwardly.

  “It’s nice to see you, Emma. I’m so happy you could be here.”

  “Really? That’s nice of you. I wish my husband would say the same.”

  Jim has picked up his knife and fork, and he’s making a show of cutting up his asparagus. There’s a vein throbbing on the side of his neck, and a crimson patch on his forehead, just between his eyes. He gets like that when he’s stressed. Or angry. Or absolutely enraged.

  “I interrupted you all. Sorry about that—you were having a toast, right? Let’s do that!” I stand up and push back my chair, but I’ve misjudged the movement and it clatters backward to the floor. “Oh, leave it, leave it!” I say, waving my free hand, even though no one has made a move to pick it up. “Come on, everybody! Let’s have a toast!” They’re not sure what to do—they’re all looking at Jim for a clue, instructions, anything.

  “Sit down, Emma,” he mutters.

  “No! Come on! It’s a celebration, right? Stand up, everyone!” I move my hand up and down, palm up, in case they don’t know what “up” looks like. Terry, Lord love him, gets up from his chair, lifts his glass high. “To the Millennium, and its talented director!” Finally, hesitantly, everyone follows suit, and repeats the toast to the sound of scraping chairs.

  “And may this be the first success of many! To the Treasury!” Terry adds.

  “To the Treasury!” answers the chorus.

  “To my million bucks that made it all possible!” I shout, raising my glass so fast half the contents spill onto the tablecloth, and I quickly drain the rest in one gesture. But this time, the chorus is silent. They’re all looking at me, and then at Jim.

  Jim has stood up. I can see it from the corner of my eye. He grabs me by the elbow. His whole face is a deep crimson now. I worry vaguely that he’s having a heart attack as he pulls me roughly away from the table and I stumble, almost fall. My heel catches the chair leg and comes off my foot.

  “Stop it—stop!” I shout, but he’s walking too fast, his fingers digging into my arm, pulling me along. The restaurant staff stare as we go past, but no one tries to stop him. They’re probably thinking the same thing: the sooner I’m out of there, the better for everyone.

  He shoulders the glass door open and yanks my arm, grabs my shoulder with his other hand, and pushes me outside.

  I’ve fallen on the sidewalk. “You’re drunk. Go home, Emma,” he says, staring at me with disgust.

  I heave myself up with both hands flat on the ground and manage to sit. A waiter slips by beside Jim, his arm reaching out to me. I lift a hand to take his, grateful he’s going to help me up, but no, he’s holding my other shoe, which he places into my open palm.

  “Can we call you a taxi, madam?” he asks.

  “No,” I gulp, the sobs bubbling up my throat. “I’m fine.” I manage to stand up and point to the opposite side of the street, where my car is parked, very badly actually.

  “You can’t drive,” Jim scoffs.

  “What do you care? Don’t tell me what to do, you—asshole!” I shout.

  I stumble across the road to the car. My knee hurts from the scrape I got. I keep dropping the keys and it takes forever to open the door. I look behind me to see if he’s watching, but his back is turned, he’s going inside. He’s waving a hand at the side of his head, as if to dismiss this annoyance that I am.

  I gently lean my forehead on the steering wheel and let the humiliation wash over me. I’m crying so hard I can’t breathe properly. I’m engulfed in abject misery so deep I can’t imagine ever crawling out of it. I don’t want to start the car, I don’t want to do anything but sit here, taking great big gulps of air.

  My phone rings, and I ignore it at first, because I’ve been thinking in this wretched moment that I have never been so lonely, and that I have no friends. Not a single friend. No one to call for help. I let it go to voice mail.

  It rings again. Whoever it is, they really want to talk to me. I empty the contents of my handbag on the passenger seat and pick it up.

  “Hello?” I manage to whisper.

  “Emma, it’s Nicole. I hope it’s not too late to call.”

  “Nicole?”

  “Nicole Callaghan—you know, from AT&T?”

  “Oh, Nicole, hold on a sec, please.” I put the phone down and blow my nose, wipe my face. “Okay, sorry, Nicole. Go ahead.”

  “I just wanted to let you know I have an address for you.”

  I jolt myself upright. “You have an address?”

  “Yes, my boyfriend tracked down those IPs for you. I didn’t want to wait. You have a pen?”

  “Huh, one sec.” I rifle through the objects on the seat and pick up a pen and an old receipt. “Okay, I’m here,” I say. She reels off the address and I jot it down. It’s not mine. I don’t know why I thought it would be—I really am going crazy—but I was genuinely starting to believe that somehow, Jim was behind this.

  After I hang up, I stare at the piece of paper, the address a blurry scrawl. I’m in no state to confront a blackmailer, but I have to know who’s been torturing me, and put a stop to it. I grab my wallet from the passenger seat, lurch out of the car, and head for a coffee shop at the end of the block.

  An hour and a half later I’m parked opposite a beautifully preserved brownstone with a slate roof. I don’t know who lives there—I have never been here before—but I’m about to find out who hates me so much that they have made my life hell for the past couple of weeks. God, is that all it is? It feels like a century. Well, anyway, whoever it is, it seems like they don’t need my money. This isn’t an apartment building, it’s a single-family home. The house is dark, so they’re probably asleep; it’s almost midnight. I’m sipping yet another cup of hot black coffee and I’m starting to feel normal again—well, not drunk anymore, anyway. I’m ready to go and confront my nightmare. I should be frightened. After all, this is someone who knows something about me, something very secret, and I don’t know the first thing about them. But I’m past being scared now. I am vibrating with anger.

  I’m taking my time, studying the windows, wondering who’s asleep behind the curtains upstairs. I have all the time in the
world, and I wait until I’m sufficiently sobered up. A cab pulls up and stops in front of the house, and after a moment someone gets out and climbs the stairs to the front door. When the cab drives off I softly open my door and cross the street. The figure turns at the sound of my heels clicking on the pavement.

  “Emma! What are you doing here?”

  36

  It doesn’t take long for Hannah to figure out that I know. She can tell from the shock on my face that I wasn’t expecting her to be there. Her face hardens, but she lets me inside.

  “What do you want, Emma?”

  “I think the question is, what do you want, Hannah?”

  I follow her into the living room. She removes her coat, and drops it on the back of the couch, and I do the same. Still not looking at me, she walks over to an antique bar cabinet, and pulls out a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. She pours and hands me one. I accept it, even though I have no intention of drinking it; it’s taken me almost two hours and gallons of black coffee to sober up.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do,” I ask her, “than to stalk me? Harass me? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  She laughs, not a very nice sound this time.

  “Who do you think you are?” she snarls, the laughter gone. She downs the Scotch and quickly pours another one. She still has the bottle in her hand.

  It’s quite surreal, standing here in her living room with a drink in my hand. From the outside it looks like we’re socializing. From the inside, well, that’s another story.

  “I’ve gone to the police, you know.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “They don’t take kindly to anonymous threats, blackmail, all these lies you’ve been putting on my Amazon page.”

  “Emma, please, let’s cut the crap, okay? You and I both know you didn’t write a single word of that book.” She puts the bottle of Scotch down after one last top-up and sits on the couch.

  She’s very different from the usual gentle Hannah. It’s like a mask has been removed; she looks tired, hard.